


And Sharpen Your Knife

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Lucid Dreaming, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2501654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's learned to not question when she appears to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Sharpen Your Knife

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "food", because hey wine counts right? ~~Maybe for Athos...~~
> 
> I wanted to keep this vague - toe the line between dream and reality, and the line between Athos' alcohol abuse and his "love" for Milady. Not sure if I succeeded, but it was a fun exercise. (lol "fun".......)

After the locket falls from his neck, he thinks, perhaps foolishly, that this will be the end of it – no longer will he be dragged back down, no longer will his mind wander to the past mistakes and misguidance, no longer will he remember ghosts. 

This is, of course, before he hears the whisper of the wine in his lungs, stunted and sluggish, craving more, and his fingers begin to twitch with it, and his eyes begin to droop with their longing. 

And it is in the dead of his night terrors that he first sees her again, and envisions that, perhaps she is truly there and not a mirage brought on by cabernet sauvignon. Perhaps. And perhaps not. 

He’s learned not to question when she appears to him, shimmering and wavering, her eyes soft, her fingers curling around the neck of the bottle as if to choke it, draws it to her own lips – and her lips, stained red with the wine, quirking into that knowing smile – knowing, always knowing, that he cannot and will not be free of her. 

And her fingers touch his cheeks as if a kiss, as if truly there. His eyes flicker shut. He opens them again and she’s undressing, she’s above him and beside him and all around him and the air is thick with her perfume, that painful sting of forget-me-not that flits through the air, as if the blue petals still curl through her hair. 

And she takes the wine, pours it into his mouth, draws his mouth further towards her, pours the wine down her chest, dipping it down between the valley of her breasts, pooling at the dip of her stomach, the curve of her hip – and he draws to her, licks over her, worships her like she is the wine itself, for that is what she is. He trails his mouth over her, whispers her name, grasps for her, crawls to her like he is nothing but a dog. 

And her fingers curl into his hair, tug, hold tight. And he gasps out – a gasp of pain, a gasp of pleasure, the stuttering fragment of her name. He can no longer remember how to speak beyond her name, beyond gasping out for her. 

The fingers on his neck are soft, but they bruise. He groans, pain and wanting, imagines those fingers curling around his neck and pressing until he can no longer breathe, until he’s dead—

And he thought, truly, that he could be free of her. 

His mouth tastes of wine, and her lips pillow against his, her tongue slides inside to his own, and he arches and curves and reaches for her, grasping at air, grasping at her hair – grasping at every fragment of skin and bone.

She touches at the spot on his chest where a locket used to rest. He thrives forward, chest heaving, thirsty for her – hungering because what else can he do now but that. 

The bottle of wine curls along the table, spilling its contents, forgotten – and he is drunk on her touch, drunk on her kiss, drunk on the very air she breathes as if drawing it out of his own lungs. 

He lays worship to her, chained to her, tasting her skin for the wine, tasting the wine for her kiss – red lips against his, chapped and dry and parched, never satisfied. 

Fingers touch his hair, soothing. 

He gasps out for air, tries to see her in his swimming vision. 

He begs for her to speak, and she only smiles at him, cold and warm at once, drawing further from him, fingers curling around his neck, curling around the neck of the wine bottle—

“Drink, dearest husband,” she finally says, and he does. 

He drinks her in, he drinks in the wine. He drinks and is never satisfied. He drinks and remains parched.


End file.
